Page 58 of Restoration

eleven

AFTER EDMUND RANDOMLYmentions we need a hot-air balloon to fly over the island to call attention to our location, we spend the next few days brainstorming how to build an enormous kite.

We need one large enough to be seen by boats passing by even at a distance but light enough to actually fly.

It’s not a simple project.

The fabric is the easy part. We have another piece of the sail from the boat. It will be perfect for catching the wind and resilient enough to not tear even if it gets battered around in a storm. A couple of weeks ago, we discovered that some of the berries on a few bushes far inland will stain clothing. I crushed some against one of the extra T-shirts we pulled out of the sailboat, and they created blotches of dark color that simply will not come out no matter how many times I wash the fabric and beat it against a rock.

So we crush a whole bowlful of berries to make a kind of ink with which we write SOS across the sail. It’s a little messy, but the letters stand out starkly against the light backdrop. So if we can manage to build a frame that gets the kite aloft, the SOS should be clearly visibly from much farther away than our rocks and shells on the beach.

But we get stuck on the frame.

We try wood from several different trees, but all of it is too heavy no matter how much we try to trim it down or minimize the weight. Then we move on to the branches of bushes, which are thinner and lighter, but they aren’t sturdy enough to hold the kite’s shape.

We spend a day and half experimenting and trying out various options. None of them work, and I’d be quite grumpy over our failure had Edmund not been able to tease me out of my frustrated mood.

On the morning of the fourth day that we’ve been focused on the kite, Edmund suggests we take a break from it for the day to refresh our ingenuity.

While I suspect it’s more that we’re running into a brick wall, I agree because I’m so exhausted from trying to solve this puzzle.

We’ve managed to find solutions to almost everything else we’ve attempted here. We’ve managed to feed ourselves, shelter ourselves, keep ourselves alive through my organized, analytical thinking and Edmund’s creativity plus his natural talent for putting things together.

But we’re stumped on this one. We might have to give up.

Instead of working on the kite, we take a leisurely walk around the island to refresh our beach SOSs. Edmund is in fine form, cracking jokes and making me laugh, and by the time we’re halfway through our walk, I’m relaxed and feel better.

We’re walking over the one rocky section of the island’s beach when my ankle twists briefly and I stumble. I catch myself and don’t do any damage to my ankle, but Edmund takes my arm to help me over the rest of the rocks.

When we’re past them, he slides his hold down to take my hand, so we end up walking hand in hand.

It’s nice. I like it a lot. It feels safe, but more than that, it feels intimate. Like we’re not just partners who fuck. Like we’re together for real.

Couples hold hands. Family holds hands. But surely that’s not how Edmund feels about me.

We’ve always gotten along and worked well together, but he never wanted to have sex until we got stuck on this island. I believe he’s genuinely attracted to me, and he’s certainly enjoyed all the sex we’ve had—every bit as much as I have. But the relationship only deepened because of circumstances.

In the real world—back home—he would never, ever choose me.

It doesn’t matter because the most likely scenario is that we’ll never get back home. Despite our attempts to flag down help, the Pacific Ocean is vast and mostly empty. This island isn’t on any regular air traffic or shipping lines. We’ll probably never be found.

So we can spend our days as comfortably and enjoyably as we can. We can be a couple—be together—because there’s absolutely no one else.

He might even grow to love me in the way you love the people who are placed into your life.

But it’s different than falling in love for real. It’s still good, but it’s different.

“What’s the matter?” he asks after several minutes. He squeezes my hand. His palm is slightly damp.

“Nothing really. Just random deep thoughts.” I smile at him, pleased when the concerned scrutiny in his expression relaxes. “Nothing worth sharing.”

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